


Madness

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime/Case fic, Explicit rating for sex & language & depictions of violence, John and Lestrade are pretty much British FBI, Johnlock - Freeform, Looking for Moran, M/M, Past Sherlock/Moriarty Relationship, Sherlock under House Arrest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson and The National Crime Agency took down Moriarty's network, they left one string unbroken; Sebastian Moran. A lead comes in that he's gone active again, and the only way to find him and bring him in is with the help of Moriarty's imprisoned partner; Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is temporarily set free under John's supervision in hopes of dismantling the spider web Moriarty spun once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been simmering in my mind for quite some time. I've got a great deal written - just kind of polishing/finishing it up. A huge thanks to the absolute wonderful firestorm26c for going over this and helping me make it better :)
> 
> Comments are unbelievably appreciated and always replied to!
> 
> *  
> **  
> ***

John Watson has been a police officer for fifteen years, and a soldier for six. He's seen terrible, evil things done to people who didn't deserve it, and he's had a few unspeakable things done to him. But none of it did anything to prepare him for the horrors he had already seen in his first six months with The Crime Agency.

John has seen human beings hunted for sport, gutted and left for dead. He's stood at the edge of a mass grave of children, discarded and thrown away as nothing more than evidence. John has more than once shot a man in the head, praying silently to himself that he wouldn't hit the hostage held tightly in their arms.

He's stood toe to toe with the most villainous man he's ever met, and never even blinked when his answer to John's _why_ , was a simple, _because I could_.

And when his days are over, he drags the last tired vestiges of his body back home, and calls to say goodnight to his children; all he wants is to hear their voices, and to be reminded that he's more than who he's become, but after the inevitable argument with his ex- wife, Mary, which he never could win, he pours himself a drink, never getting what it was he wanted.

He takes a shower to wash away the dirt and the grime of the day. He'd try to wash away the memories, but they were just too big to go down the drain, so he drowns them instead, with another glass of Scotch before bed.

He can leave at any time. Lestrade's made that perfectly clear. It isn't the right division for everyone; they've lost fifty agents in the first three months. But John won't give up and walk away. He's done that once already in life, and he has no intention for it to happen again.

 

 

The tenth floor of the Met is chaotic when John comes in to work; agents milling in and out- away from their clustered desks which are filled with files and papers. He makes his way to his own desk; paperwork stacked neatly and put away from the night before. He slips his bag into the bottom drawer, and sits down to start another day with the press of a button on his computer.

"Damnit." He mumbles when he's met with a black screen. "I hate this bloody thing."

"It's not the computers fault, Agent Watson."

A soft voice says from behind.

John turns to see Molly Hooper, a specialist in the tech division, hugging a clipboard almost protectively against her chest, and her long, chestnut hair pushed neatly behind her ears.

"Oh, hello Molly."

Molly pops up now and again on the floor, and her appearance, though an omen of technical difficulties, is always welcome. She's a bit mousy, and odd, and sometimes she wants to stop talking, but doesn't know how, so John has to stop for her. But she's sweet, and she's pretty, and she's damn good at her job.

"So, tell me, why isn't it my computers fault that it can't do the one task it has, and turn on?" He asks her, hitting his hand against the top of the tower.

"Well, because I've unplugged your power source."

"Oh." He says, feeling quite stupid.

Molly smiles and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ears, "You're getting a new monitor. A flat screen. Shouldn't take me longer than fifteen minutes."

"I like this screen just fine." She laughs, "You're not big on change, are you Agent?"

John shakes his head at her, and rolls his chair away from the desk to let Molly do her work. He's thought a time or two about asking her out for dinner, or at least a cup of coffee during lunch, but then he remembers that she's twelve years younger than he, and doesn't need a broken, pathetic divorcee trying to pull her in the middle of the workday.

"Watson!"

John swivels in his chair just in time to see a pile of silvering hair float into Lestrade's office. He pushes himself up, and crosses the floor, leaving Molly to finish her work.

He knocks on the open door, and pokes his head inside, "A case?" he asks.

Greg Lestrade is standing behind his desk, a thick manila folder in his hands. He has a crack in his forehead that reveals more about his stress than his age, though he isn't a young man anymore, he isn't on the road to retirement just yet either.

"Bit more than that." Lestrade tells him "I think we found him."

"Moran; You've found Moran?"

John pushes his way into the office, the soles of his shoes rubbing against the carpet. He's never thought that they would find him; it was a black hole in his record as an agent, as their reputation as an agency, that Sebastian Moran evaded capture while the rest of his network is snug behind the bars of a prison; James Moriarty included.

"Well we found the evidence he's left behind."

Lestrade hands John the folder he's been holding in his hands. John opens it to a top page of notes from the field agents who have been working on the case. All of the leads they've followed that led to nowhere, or to someone else entirely. He skims through them, and lifts them away to photos of dead bodies; five men and women stabbed repeatedly and laid out just the same way in different abandoned buildings; all of them bloody, all of them bearing the hallmark of someone angry, and scrapping for survival.

He's still analyzing the photos when Lestrade speaks again; hesitant with his hand cupping the back of his head

"Look, I've called in some help on this, and I don't think you're going to like it."

John's eyes stopped flittering between the files and the other man, and he sees the look of genuine worry he's wearing.

"What did you do, Greg?"

Before the question has even finished tumbling out of his mouth, the office door opens and two police officers push a tall, skinny man wearing a gray sweat suit and handcuffs through the frame. John feels his stomach fall to the floor, and his whole body heat up as he watches them walk him in, and push him down into the leather chair in front of the desk. The pale skin of his face, the dark curls on his head; it makes John nauseous with fury.

"You've got to be fucking with me-" "

He knows Moran best."

John clenches his fists at his sides, and then it's only a swift motion that brings him within inches of the other man’s face. He can feel Lestrade’s breath hit against the tip of his nose and tumble down over his lips and down his throat.

“Just because you are in bed with the fucking MI-5 doesn't mean you have to do their bidding!"

"You will leave my personal life out of this, Agent Watson!"

"Oh, Mycroft!" the man says with a breaking cacophony of glee from where he's been quietly sitting. "I didn't know you had it in you, Agent.” he confesses while he comfortably leans back into his chair. “Matter of fact..I didn't know my brother did, either."

"Shut up!" Lestrade barks at him over John's head of ashen hair.

He grins, and John steps away from Lestrade to look at him. He's smug and entitled even when clapped in irons, sitting like a regal house cat rather than a prisoner.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but he can't be trusted, and you know it."

"This isn't up for discussion. I've already made the decision."

"Greg-"

The man clears his throat, "May I say something?"

"What is it?" John asks through gritted teeth.

"Moran is a vile, whimpering idiot. I hold no allegiance to him."

"Wonderful. Good to know." He pulls on Lestrade's arm, "can I talk to you in the hall for a moment?"

They leave the office, arms folded over their chests, and speaking in a hushed tone.

"This is your boyfriend's doing, isn't it? Looking to get his brother out of prison?"

Lestrade sighs, "Yes. If he cooperates, if he leads us to Moran then Mycroft has made arrangements to get him out of prison under the stipulation that he leave The UK."

"That's just fucking great."

John isn't happy, there's very little he's been this unhappy about in his entire life. He throws his hands up in the air. He wants to reach out and wrap his hands around Greg's throat just to have some kind of connection to reality, but it won't do any good. He could pull all the breath from the man's lungs, and leave him lying dead on the floor, but Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes will still be sitting in that office.

"His charges are all drawn up on conspiracy and accessory; Moriarty's legion of hit men committed more first class crimes than he did." Lestrade says, almost pleading for John to understand his decision.

"He was Moriarty's confidant! He took him to bed every bloody night and encouraged him to be the best mad man he could be! Just because he didn't pull a trigger or transfer any money, or sell top secret codes doesn't mean he isn't just as much a monster as the rest of them."

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, "Look, I'm not saying he's innocent-"

"Just less guilty." John says before he blows a ribbon of breath out from his nose, and shakes his head, "You know it's really amazing, Greg; I have no idea where Mycroft's umbrella ends and your ass begins."

He opens the door to the office with a violent tug. Sherlock is still sitting, and staring at the wall in front of him. His cuffed hands are clasped gingerly on his lap while the officers who brought him in are standing in the corner, their eyes closely guarding him.

"Come to an understanding?" Sherlock asks.

"Shut up. You are going to shut up and tell me everything you know about Sebastian Moran."

"Which is it, Agent Watson; do you want me to shut up or do you want me to tell you about Moran?"

John leans over the chair in one swift movement, his hands on either side of Sherlock, and takes a personal pride in the small flinch of surprise that shakes Sherlock's body back a notch.

"What I want is to shoot you in the stomach and watch you slowly bleed to death, but I'm going to settle for you telling me about Moran."

Sherlock grins, "Oh, you've gotten so much more feisty since your divorce."

John pushes himself away in an outburst of annoyance. As he sits on the edge of Lestrade's desk, the man himself walks back inside, and quietly rests against the back wall, his arms crossed over his chest again.

"Fine." Sherlock says to John, "I'll tell you, but I have some conditions."

"No." John firmly replies.

"Yes. Conditions; one really."

John paces the room. He feels Sherlock’s eyes following him, ghosting over his every detail. He comes to a sudden stop, gripping his fingers around the back of the chair underneath him, and stares directly into Sherlock's blue eyes.

"What is it?" He asks.

"I want out. For as long as I'm helping you; I won't go back to prison."

"If we get Moran, you're out for good-"

"And put right on a plane headed for America or someplace equally worse. I would like the chance to say goodbye to London."

"Is that sentiment, Mr. Holmes?"

"Few things are worth it, but she is one of the few."

John turns the idea over in his head. Sherlock Holmes out on the streets of London is a terrifying thought, but Moran never being caught, and rebuilding the empire he was once a part of is even more so. John sighs and grips the back of the chair until the tips of his fingers have turned white.

" Fine." He says. "But you do it under my rules. You stay with me, and in eye sight the entire time."

"John-" Lestrade interrupts, placing a subtle hand over his shoulder. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

John shrugs him off, "You got me into this catastrophe, now let me go with it."

Sherlock watches them and comfortably eases himself back into his chair.

"Great! Let's get started then." He unfolds his hands and does his best to smooth them along the itching fabric of his trousers.

"Don't suppose I could get a cup of tea, first?" he asks.

"Talk first; tea later." John impatiently snaps-waiting for a reaction..

Sherlock trades looks with the two men before giving in. He nods in agreement, and takes a deep breath.

"Sebastian is not a creature of comfort out of habit. He doesn't have a favourite shirt or a lucky pair of underwear. He doesn't care where his meal comes from or the route he takes to the shop. He adapts and he changes however he needs to. When Moriarty found him, he had been beaten and left for dead by his lover. In a matter of weeks he went from a strung out prostitute to a violent killer as if it was something he had been doing his whole life. Jim was very impressed by him."

"Must have been- to replace you. How long had you been with him?"

"Six years. But Sebastian never replaced me. He simply did the work I didn't want to. I'm strong and I can be lethal; don't underestimate that about me Agent, but I can also be quite lazy. Sebastian was so eager to please James, and James was so very interested in having someone close who wasn't his equal."

"I don't think Moriarty would have considered you an equal."

Sherlock chuckles, "Of course not. He doesn't even consider God an equal. But, why are we talking about me? I thought you wanted to know about Moran?"

"I do. You said that he isn't a creature of habit, so why are all of his kills the same?"

"The first time Sebastian killed anyone, Moriarty talked him through it. He didn't tell him what to do, he just encouraged him-"

Sherlock clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is higher, and his words knit together like a song.

 _"let go Sebastian; let go of everything. Don't listen to her cries, don't think about her family; don't think about how your mother will be so disappointed-she already is. Don't think about anything except for the power, and the control. You have it all Sebastian._ _Use it_."

"Is that what he did with you you're first time?"

"As I've stated on many occasions, I never killed anybody."

"No. You just stood by and watched them die."

"We're talking about me again."

John rolls his eyes, and leans his hip against the side of the desk. "Continue."

"He stabbed her in the stomach; deep, down to the hilt of the knife. That would have been enough for her to bleed out quickly, but Sebastian always wanted more."

"The knife; every time? He never used a gun?"

"Moriarty was a gunman. He loved his guns. Moran has always prefered the knife.."

"And you?"

" _If_ I were to kill anyone, I would take a much more subtle approach."

"Such as?"

"Poison. Less messy, and much more interesting to watch."

Sherlock reaches to the desk where the file's been sitting, and opens it up to go over the notes and the pictures.

"There's no doubt that this is Moran." he says, resting it in his lap.

"There were traces of heroin found underneath one of the victim's fingernails. She was a single mum; a lawyer, not someone who would typically do heroin-"

"We didn't handle drug transactions often; the cartels know what they're doing, and don't need to consult anyone, but Sebastian was familiar with the drug world - it's possible he's starting a new enterprise. These were likely runners; dispensable when things didn't go his way."

It's the confirmation the agency needs to move forward and close their case.

"Now, if you wouldn't mind -" Sherlock starts, "I'd like a shower, and comfortable clothes, and some tea."

John pushes away from the desk, and nods. He gets the keys for the handcuffs from one of the officers, and leans down in front of Sherlock. "Come on, then."

"Wait -" Lestrade breaks in, "Where are you going to take him?" "

My flat, I suppose."

"John, I don't think that's a good idea."

"I said he didn't have to go back to the prison. I said I would keep an eye on him."

Greg still isn't comfortable with the idea, but he doesn't have the energy to fight with John about it.

"Alright. I'll have Mycroft bring some of his things over."

John unlocks the cuffs and hands the keys back. Sherlock rubs his fingers along his wrists, and stands up from the chair.

"Ready when you are, Agent Watson."

John sighs. He can already feel himself regretting his agreement. He opens the door, and leads Sherlock out first. The click of keyboards, and mill of voices stop when they step on the floor, and John can feel eyes on them. He stops at his desk to pick up a few things he'll need, and they continue to the lift.

"You screw up even once, and it's back to prison; for good. Do you hear me?"

Sherlock looks to John; a tiny smirk on his lips, "I understand, Agent Watson." he says.

They continue their ride to the car park in nothing but the sound of the music coming over the small speakers in the lift. John's stomach is heavy and in knots as he closes the door to his car, looking over to see Sherlock sitting in the seat next to him. He can't help but laugh to himself at how ridiculous it all is.

The weather is nice for a change; it's been a brisk and rainy September. John opens the moon roof to let in the warm breeze and to fill the car with sunshine. He glances a look to Sherlock and sees his eyes closed, chin out into the air, soaking up the light against his pale skin. John thinks about how this is the first time in a long time Sherlock hasn't been trapped by bars and concrete. The first time he's heard the city, been able to smell it and feel it against his bones.

For a moment, John almost feels sorry for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three is going to be on the longer side, and will need some extra attention from me, because, it's also when things get steamy, so I'm giving you chapter two a little earlier than planned!
> 
> Hope you like it :)
> 
> And thank you to firestorm26c for her wonderful editing!!

Four months before Mary had divorce papers sent to John's office, she kicked him out of their suburban home. John didn't necessarily blame her for it; he'd neglected her and the children for months, every ounce of energy he had wrapped up in the Moriarty case, and the very day she packed his things and had them sitting by the front door was the same day he handed Sherlock Holmes over to the prison transportation guard for good.

He fought with her, pleaded with her, and swore that he would be a better husband and a better father, but it was too late. Mary's tear stained face told him that she had had enough, and the gold bracelet around her wrist told him that she had found someone else who could take care of her the way John couldn't anymore.

He kissed Gemma and Gabriel, sleeping in their beds, goodbye, and picked up his bags. For three weeks he slept on Greg's couch, hoping that Mary would change her mind, but knowing that she wouldn't.

John was still in love with her smile, and the way she tucked her hair behind her ears, even though it was too short to ever stay there. He still loved her kindness, loved how she made John bake cupcakes in the middle of the night when she was pregnant with Gabe. John was still in love with the way she sang to the kids when they wouldn't go to sleep, and how she peppered John with kisses when he couldn't.

John was still in love with her, but none of it mattered then. So, he started over. Found a flat with three bedrooms, and that was close enough to work.

And now, here he is, standing in the flat he's tried to make a home for his children, with a convicted criminal.

"Looks as though your brother was here - in my flat - already."  John said as he gawked at the boxes sitting in his living room.

Sherlock is already opening them, three total, and sifting through the contents with the same wide eyes of a child on Christmas morning.

"I doubt very much Mycroft brought these himself."

"Oh, so he just had a complete stranger break into my home? That's much more comforting.”

With a long, drawn out sigh, John collapses onto the sofa to watch Sherlock, because really, he doesn't know what else he should do. He's still trying to wrap his head around the reality sitting before him.

Sherlock is pulling shirts from the box, and inspecting them to make sure each button is still in place, each cuff had been rolled down and it's crispness preserved. He inspects the jackets on the bottom of the box much the same, the trousers and the shining shoes that look as though they had just been polished.

There's  a book that Sherlock pulls out and opens to read. John can't see the name of it. But Sherlock thumbs through the pages, stopping to read a few words, before closing it up again. He's shuffling through the clothes again, a little more vigorously this time, tossing them around while his brows knit in frustration.

"Missing something?" John asks.

Sherlock lets out a breath and leans against the side of the boxes, fingers resting against the pile of clothes.

"Aside from a pack of cigarettes, no. It all seems to be in order."

John knows that he's lying; he can see a look of almost sadness on Sherlock's face - one that says ‘he didn't get everything he wanted for Christmas.

"Fine then. I suppose you'd like to get cleaned up?"

Sherlock nods, and John forces himself off the sofa, He leads Sherlock to the bathroom. It's down the hallway that divides the living room and the kitchen. The wall is painted mauve - a colorful break between the rich cream of the sitting room and the deep brown of the bedroom.

The golden and rose bathroom is big enough for the both of them to stand in.  John makes his way around Sherlock to bring out a clean towel from the small linen cupboard behind the door.

"I'll order takeaway for dinner." he says. "Is Chinese alright?"

"Actually, I was thinking with it being my first day of freedom, we could go out."

"Out?"

"Yes. There's an Italian place I used to enjoy not far from here. Would make a nice walk. I could get some cigarettes on the way there."

John shakes his head with a barely visible smile on his face. As if things weren't weird enough already, he's being faced with the possibility of eating in a restaurant with Sherlock.

"Alright." he says.

As he closes the door, and hears the tap start to run, John brings himself into the kitchen. Sherlock had wanted tea, and he was feeling like a cup himself.

The ritual feels nice- it’s calming.  And maybe  if he drowns out the sound of the shower running, he can almost forget what he's gotten himself into. By the time he's finished making the tea, and has two cups steaming on the table, Sherlock’s walking into the kitchen, clean shaven, with a light blue shirt tucked into black trousers, the top two buttons open, and damp curls dripping onto his shoulders.

It's a far better look than the dingy sweat suit.

"Your tea." John says, handing him a mug.

"Thank you, Agent"

"John will be just fine. Do you take milk or sugar?"

"Both."

John already has the milk out for his own tea, but he has to dig around the cupboard for the sugar. As soon as he sets it on the table, Sherlock spoons some into his tea - the amount makes John's teeth hurt.

They sip at their tea together, and just for a moment, John thinks about changing clothes, but he doesn't want to bother with it. Instead he reaches for his keys and they leave for the restaurant.

It's a small place on the corner of a street that John never paid attention to, despite it being so close. When Sherlock walks through the door, he's immediately greeted at the sound of the bell by a large man, who wraps his arms around him, and is laughing.

"Sherlock! Never thought I would see you again." the man says, setting Sherlock back down on his feet.

"Angelo; it's good to see you again."

Angelo's smile fades away as he looks to his side at a couple sitting in the booth there.

"Like I said, I never thought I would see you again."

"It's alright. We'll take the corner."

"Of course. I'll bring you menus."

Angelo quickly hurries away, while Sherlock and John settle into a corner table near the edge of a large picture window. He comes back quickly with the menus he mentioned and a bottle of wine. They both watch as Angelo pours it into the glasses sitting before them. It smells floral, and sweet like pears, with just a hint of oak. It smells...expensive.

"Friend of yours?" John asks once Angelo has left them again.

"From a former life."

"Someone I should be arresting, then?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "There was a point in time when I was only a genius."

"So what changed to turn you into a _criminal_ genius?"

"I met Jim."

His answer is so calm and sure that it sends shivers down John's spine. He takes a drink from his glass to calm his nerves down

"You were a student at Cambridge?"

"So was he. We were both in our last year, both bored with everything around us. It didn't start off criminal, but rather sexual, though I knew the sorts of things he did."

"So, good sex lead you to crime? Remind me to tell my mother she was right about something after all." John laughs over the rim of his wine glass.

"Have you ever had sex with a madman, John?"

"Can't say that I have."

Sherlock leans in against the soft leather of the booth, his lips are pulled into an almost sentimental smile. It makes him look human, but John decided long ago that he wasn't, and reminds himself that Sherlock, a cold, calculating madman himself, is being nostalgic about his relationship with a psychopath.

"Nothing was too much for him, and as a result of my previous sexual naiveté, nothing was enough for me.  The things he did to me, the things I begged him to do...."

John's cheeks turn hot; he's sure that they're flushed, and is grateful for the dim light of the restaurant. He's suddenly having an image of Sherlock underneath Moriarty, arched off a bed, and begging…..it's too much.

He gulps before taking a sip of wine to clear his head. He ignores the look in Sherlock's eyes. The look that says he knows what's going on in John's mind, and wouldn’t give anything in the world to stop it.

"But, I'm not an idiotic slave to my body like the rest of you.” Sherlock says, snapping John out of his trance. “Before my boredom led me to Jim, it had brought me to heroin. I was on the verge of losing everything, quite likely my life. Jim got me clean, and I suppose I was... _grateful_."

"Clearly...." John mumbles before taking another sip of his drink.

They fall into a silence. John doesn't know what to say, and Sherlock doesn't have anything else he wants to say.  John is now on his second glass of wine. But the silence between the two is still painfully apparent as Sherlock lets out a small smirk and taking the first bite out of his meal.

Once they've  finished with their meals, John gently wipes his mouth against the napkin sitting on his lap. Sherlock can't help but watch as he orders a coffee for the road.

With the sun setting, a breeze has started to come up, and weave in between the two men as they walk. John holds his hands inside the pockets of his coat. And Sherlock's are in the pockets of his trousers. They're taking a different route back, as John let Sherlock lead the way. He doesn't think he should be worried, but rather Sherlock is just milking his moment of freedom, drinking in the wind running through his hair, and the smell of London filling up his lungs.

"How did you know I've gotten divorced?" John asks after they've been walking a ways.

"What?"

"In Lestrade's office you mentioned something about my divorce."

"Oh. It was obvious."

"How so?"

"In those months you were interrogating me, though exhausted, you were always well put together. The collar of your shirts ironed, your shoes shined. And there was always a look in your eye that said you didn't have time for me, because there was something more important for you elsewhere. This morning, you looked... _broken_."

"Exactly the look I've been going for." John says with a bitter laugh.

"That, and you aren't wearing a wedding ring."

John looks down at his naked finger. He took the ring off over a year ago, but sometimes he still forgets that it isn't there. It was just a simple gold band, but for so long it was one of the most important parts of who he was.

"Ahh, so you cheated then. All that deduction stuff yours- I knew it wasn't anything real."

"You're a loyal man, John. It's more likely that you were having it cleaned or that you lost it. Had you been in the same physical condition you were the last time I saw you, I would have come to one of those conclusions."

Sherlock suddenly stops walking, and is standing in front of a white brick building. There's a sandwich shop with a maroon awning, and a black door with gold numbers, and a small black gate. He pulls something out of his pocket and kneels on the small cement step in front of the door.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Picking a lock."

"Oh, wonderful." John throws his hands up in the air, and slaps them back down against his thighs, "Picking a lock. Of course”

"I took a hairpin from your cupboard. I can replace it if you'd like, but it's less worn than the others, so I don't think your daughter will miss it."

"And why are you doing this?"

"I don't have my keys, and Mrs. Hudson has book club on Thursday night."

"Your keys?"

John hears a click, and then a creak. Sherlock is quickly back on his feet, and through the doorway without answer. John has a tight grip on the hair on the side of his head as he watches Sherlock disappear. He knew it, he knew that Sherlock was going to try something. He was stupid. So stupid.

John runs into the building, and finds Sherlock bent down at the top of a staircase, picking yet another lock.

"Sherlock!" John yells, feeling like he’s dealing with an insolent child.

Sherlock keeps ignoring him, and there's another click and creak. John sighs before stomping up the steps, and into the flat.

"Tell me what the hell you are doing or I'm taking you back to prison right now." John says.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the flat, between a set of chairs and a coffee table that's sitting in front of a sofa. There's dust sprinkling around them, falling into their hair and resting on their shoulders. The room reminds him of photographs he had seen in school about the city of Pompeii, an undisturbed collection of books and artifacts, and even a human skull sitting on the mantle.

There's a tea setting for one on the desk by the narrow windows in the back.  And cold cigarettes in an ashtray. It doesn't take John long to figure out where they've just broken into...

That same feeling of pity John felt in the car earlier washes over him again, and he steps forward to place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock steps out of his way before he has a chance to, and disappears. John follows his trail through the kitchen, and to a small hallway leading into a bedroom.

Sherlock is in the wardrobe, throwing shirts, trousers and sweaters from it onto the unmade bed behind him.

"Did your brother forget something, after all?" John asks.

"My coat!"

John jumps at the boom of Sherlock's voice. He has a flash of Sherlock run through his brain. He's in the interrogation room, hands cuffed and resting on the stainless steel table. The officers brought him in from his flat just as he was sitting down to have tea. He was dressed as well as he is now, but he had one something else.

"A long, blue, wool thing?" John asks.

"Yes. Did you see it?"

"It's uh- it's in evidence."

"Evidence?"

"You were wearing it when they brought you in-"

There's hardly any sound, but there's a blurred image and suddenly Sherlock is towering over John. His eyes are wide, and angry; he's breathing heavy and in John's face.

"I _want_ my coat."

"It's been logged away."

"Unlog it, then." Sherlock snaps.

John holds Sherlock's stare for several seconds. He knows from their interviews, from conversations with Mycroft that Sherlock is spoilt, and has been used to getting his own way his entire life, but the look in his eyes is more than wanting something he can't have.

John nods, "Alright. Tomorrow. We can go get it tomorrow."

Sherlock's breath evens out, and he slowly retreats. He doesn't bother to pick up any of the mess he's made. He instead just turns out the light and leaves John standing alone in the darkened room.

When John comes back into the light of the sitting room, Sherlock has a box in his arms, and is standing by the door, ready to leave again. John doesn't say anything. He doesn't ask what's in the box and he certainly doesn’t question Sherlock as to what he’s doing. Instead he lets Sherlock turn out the rest of the lights and shuffle down the stairs one step at a time.

The rest of the walk home is completely silent, and when they get back to John's, Sherlock put his box with the others.

"I'll make some room for your things tomorrow. No need for you to live out of boxes for however long this takes."

Sherlock grumbles a response from the chair he's sitting in.

"Right. I'll just get your bed ready then."

John leaves Sherlock in the living room, and goes up the stairs into his son's room. He did think about letting Sherlock sleep up there, or even on the sofa in the living room, but neither option felt right in his gut, so instead, he decided to drag the twin mattress down the stairs and into his bedroom. He puts it on the opposite side of his bed, underneath the window, and makes it up with clean sheets and a duvet.

"I had my own cell in prison."

Sherlock's voice carries across the bedroom from where he's leaning against the doorframe.

"I told you; always in my eyesight."

"Yes, you did."

"Will it be comfortable enough?" John asks."I'm sure it will be just fine."

"Alright. Good. You don't snore do you?"

Sherlock laughs, "No."

"Good. Neither do I."

 John lingers oddly at the door before leaving Sherlock to get into bed. John isn't quite ready to sleep, or rather he isn't quite ready to sleep in the same room as Sherlock. So, he sits on the sofa with the Moran files and a blanket draped over his lap. And if that's where he falls asleep, then that's where he's going to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was without internet for a few days - sorry about the delay in posting!  
> Chapters 4 and 5 are written - just in the editing process, and I have an epilogue almost finished as well. So, assuming all goes well with my internet, expect an update every 5-7 days until it's all posted!
> 
> Thanks again to firestorm26c for being so awesome!

"Are these necessary?" Sherlock asks, as John tightens one handcuff over Sherlock's wrist and the other to the bar underneath his desk.

John hadn’t previously thought about what he would do with Sherlock while he was at work. But this seemed good enough for the moment.

 "Yes." John answers.

"I'm in the Met, surrounded by police officers and crime agents, where am I going to go?"

"I'd rather not find out. I'm going to talk to Lestrade. Don't touch anything."

"When are you going to get me my coat?" Sherlock asks.

"I'll get it." John says, leaving Sherlock in the chair.

John knocks on the door to Lestrade's office. The blinds are drawn, so he waits until it's answered rather than going straight inside like he normally would. It takes a few minutes, long enough, with enough rushed noise, for John to form an idea of just what just might be going on behind those blinds.

Lestrade's flushed face appears with the door swinging open, and John looks around his shoulder to see Mycroft Holmes, adjusting the last button on his waistcoat.

"Mr. Holmes, I didn't know you were here." John says, trying to hide the amusement on his face just as much as Mycroft is attempting to hide his embarrassment.

 "I thought I might say hello to my brother."

 "Of course, yes. He's at my desk."

 Mycroft nods, and brushes past the two of them without a word.

 "How did the first night go?" Greg asks.

 "Strange."

 "Did he behave himself?"

 "He did break into a flat. But it was his own."

 "I suppose that's on par with good behaviour."

 John shrugs his shoulders, inclined to agree, and not interested in talking about Sherlock at the moment.

 "I was up looking at the files last night. There's no line as to where Moran's heroin goes?"

 "Forensics haven't been able to match the powder underneath the victim's fingernails to anything currently circulating."

 "Where is it going, then?"

 Lestrade shrugs.

 "It's here, in London. But if Moran is trying to build an enterprise, he's going to start off small. Test batches with a specific clientele - people he can trust not to get picked up."

 Sherlock stands in the doorway with Mycroft next to him.

 "I see you found someone to take you out of your shackles." John says, looking to Mycroft.

 "If I'm meant to be consulting, then I should be included, should I not?"

 "He has a point." Lestrade says.

 "Fine. Where might these test pool be?"

 "Where everybody always overlooks; the homeless."

 "There's lots of homeless people, Sherlock."

 "Yes, it's a national crises that the lot of you choose to ignore. But, I know where to look. Get my coat, and I'll take you there."

 "Yes, your bloody coat!  Alright, alright. Let's go get the damn thing."

 John practically storms out from the office, pulling Sherlock along with him. They take the lift to the basement floor, where there's little light and there's a draft coming in from the concrete walls. He approaches a desk, and reaches for a clipboard on the wall, all but ignoring the man sitting in the chair. He takes a pen from a cup and scrawls something down into a blank space on the paper on the clipboard.

"I need that." he says, turning it around for the man to see.

He nods at John, and looks over his shoulder to where Sherlock is standing, hands patiently in the pockets of his trousers. The man slips behind a steel cage for a moment and then down a long hallway until he can't be seen anymore. It's almost five minutes before he comes back, carrying a lump underneath cling wrap.

He hands it to John, who takes a pair of scissors from the same cup he took the pen, and cuts at the cling until he can unwrap it and let what's underneath unfurl.

Sherlock looks at it, hanging wrinkled in John's hands, and John almost thinks he's going to cry.

"Here." he says, "turn around."

Sherlock does, and John walks up behind him, and holds it out for Sherlock to slide his arms into, and John pushes it up on his shoulders. Sherlock wraps the wool around his body, does the buttons, and pushes his hands into the pockets.

"Are you ready now?" John asks, trying not to smile at the site before him.

"Yes, I am."

They take the car to a neighborhood John used to patrol when he was on the beat, and park a few blocks away from an abandoned park. When they're close to where they want to be, Sherlock stops and puts a hand on John's arm.

"You should wait here."

"I can take care of myself."

"They won't talk if you're there. You look like a cop."

"I am."

"Exactly."

John sighs, and rolls his eyes, "Fine, but I'm coming to get you if you aren't back here in ten minutes."

"I only need seven."

John watches Sherlock walk away, and checks the time on his watch. He leans against the lamp post behind him, and waits, taking another glance to his watch every two minutes.

Just as predicted, seven minutes pass before he sees Sherlock running up to him.

"This is more than you thought." he says, not stopping, but rather picking up pace as John struggles to keep up.

 "What do you mean?"

 "A man by the name of Benny E. He has been dealing a lot of drugs in a lot of homeless areas."

 "So?"

 "Moran never knew Benny! Only Moriarty and I did."

 "How can you know that for certain? He was a drug user, yes?"

 "Benny doesn't slum, or at least he didn't. He prefers the rich and entitled user."

 "Like you?"

 "Exactly like me. When Jim was making me clean up, he had a run in with Benny, the kind that ended with one of them covered in a lot of blood. He paid him to keep away from me."

 "What does this have to do with Moran?"

 "Benny had aspirations. He always spoke about being a one man cartel, but he can't do that without a little help."

 John stares at him blankly.

 "Oh, for god's sake, how you ever became a police officer is beyond me."

 Sherlock stops, and grabs John by the shoulders, his grasp is tight.

 "Moran isn't building a drug enterprise - he's helping Benny do it, and the only way he could know Benny is if one of them is in contact with Moriarty...And I doubt that it's the high end drug dealer he despises so much."

 "You mean to tell me that Moran and Moriarty are in communication with one another?"

 "They have to be."

 John slides away from Sherlock's grasp, and immediately takes his phone from his coat pocket. He calls up Lestrade to tell him just what Sherlock has said.

 "Lestrade is going to look into where this Benny E. holds up, and set up a meeting with me and Moriarty tomorrow. This was - you did good Sherlock."

 "He has a warehouse by the docks. Doesn't work during the day, so it will be nice and empty for you to get all the evidence you want."

 John reaches for his phone again to save Lestrade time in looking up the information himself, but Sherlock's hand is suddenly over his, pushing it down.

 "I said _you._ "

 "Sherlock, I can't go into a situation like that alone."

 "I'll be there."

 "I certainly can't let you go into a situation like that at all."

 "I swear to you, John, that it will be empty. And if something should go wrong, you always have your gun."

 John looks to where Sherlock is looking, at the gun tucked away in the waistband of his jeans. He knows that he shouldn't listen to Sherlock, and that he should wait for Lestrade, but there's no guarantee that the kid Sherlock got his information from won't tip Benny off, and everything will be gone by the time the legal tape has been cleared.

 "Fine. Take me there, but you're staying in the car."

 "I'll stay in the car if I can go with you to see James."

 "No."

 "And why not?"

 "If you want a personal visit with your ex-boyfriend that can be done on your time, not mine."

 "It isn't personal. It's not as if I miss him -"

 They start walking again to where John parked the car, and as he is unlocking the doors, he points his finger over the hood of the car in a vague threat, "I said no. No to going inside this warehouse and no to seeing Moriarty."

 "He won't talk to you."

 "And he'll talk to you? It's likely gossip of your deal with Mycroft has gotten to him, and even if it hasn't, he'll figure it out the second he sees you. I've gotten him to talk before, and I'm quite sure I can do it again."

 He gets in and starts the car. It's almost a full minute before Sherlock finishes sulking and gets in as well. They drive to the docks, the only words exchanged between the two of them are Sherlock's directions on where to go.

 The warehouse is old, water damaged and falling apart. John supposes it was picked for that very reason. He wants to make good on his demand that Sherlock stay in the car, but the idea of him alone with something that he could escape in over rides his want to keep Sherlock away from the drugs he's no doubt going to find inside. So, the two of them are inside the warehouse, empty, and dark. John has his torch resting over his gun across his wrist as they walk through empty space, getting further and further into the black.

 "Are you sure this is the right place?" he asks.

 "Just keep going."

 There's a set of green metal doors that John struggles to push open. On the other side, is exactly what he was hoping to find. There’s table after table of unprocessed heroin, scales and bags. It's an assembly line. There's a desk in the corner filled with pink sticky notes which have names and zip codes scrawled across them.  He isn't going to take anything just yet, but he does out his phone and starts to take photos of the scene before him.

 John is turning to photograph the drugs, and freezes at the image on his screen of Sherlock sitting on one of the stools behind a particularly large pile of brown dust. He isn't touching it, he isn't even looking at it, but his chin is held up high, and he's breathing in slow.

 "Sherlock?"

 His eyes pop open at the sound of his name, and he looks down at what's in front of him,

 "I'm fine. Are you done?"

 "Almost."

 "I'll be outside. I won't steal the car."

 Sherlock jumps up from the stool, knocking it down and sending an echo through the cemented space. He's moving so quickly that John can only see a blur of the tails of his coat. He's almost to the metal doors where John won't be able to see him anymore. When, John hears another echo, it's Sherlock's voice, cursing.

 John sighs and pockets his phone and rushes over. He soon realizes that Sherlock has fallen to the floor. His hand is cupped over his right eye, and there's blood spilling between his fingers and running down his face. John gently moves Sherlock's hand and wipes away some of the blood with his sleeve. There's a large gash just below his brow line filled with deep, red blood.

 "Oh, that's going to need stitches." he says, looking around to find what it was Sherlock ran into.

 There's a small spike, some broken piece of the building, jutting out from the wall with blood dripping from it. John takes off his coat, pulls off his shirt and folds it up to press against Sherlock's eye.

 "Keep that there until we get to hospital."

 "No!" Sherlock shouts. "Not the hospital."

 "Sherlock, it needs stitches."

 "You were a doctor; you can do it."

 "Sherlock-"

 Sherlock swallows, and takes the hand that John has just offered down to help him back to his feet.

 "Please. Not the hospital."

 "Alright. I'll clean it up and get a better look. If I don't think I can do it, I'm taking you."

 "Fine."

 John sits Sherlock down on a chair in the kitchen. He finds his first aid kit, and wets a few rags with warm water. Once the blood is cleared away, he can clearly see the wound and was able to start the tedious procedure.

 "Ow!" Sherlock says as he jerks away from John's touch.

 "If you stay still it won't hurt as much."

"I am staying still."

"It would also hurt less if you let me take you to hospital."

 "You know what you're doing."

 "I numbed you with an ice cube."

 "That's far more than I've ever been given before. More than you think I deserve."

 "Sherlock -"

 "No sense in pretending otherwise. Even if you weren't so vocal about your contempt for me with Agent Lestrade, everything from the way you walk, sigh, and breathe in your sleep tells me the truth."

 "You're a criminal, Sherlock."

 "I know what I am."

 John holds Sherlock's gaze for a hair of a second, and then continues his suturing.  Sherlock smells like sweat and blood, and still a hint of John's soap and shampoo.

It's curious to smell the familiarity of himself on someone so strange.

 John snips off the thread before slowly setting the scissors down onto the table.

 "Done." he says, "They're a bit uneven. It's been a while since I've had to sew."

 The legs of the chair scrape against the wood of the kitchen floor, and Sherlock crosses to the counter to fill the kettle from the tap.

 John watches him, though he doesn't know what for. It wasn't as if he had never seen anyone make tea before, but still he follows Sherlock's step from counter to sink, watches the droplets of water roll down his wrist, and splash against the steel.

 When Sherlock turns to wait for the kettle to boil, John quickly tries to look anywhere else in the kitchen that isn't Sherlock, but is trapped by the heat rushing through his cheeks from the other mans smirk.

 "Did you want tea?" Sherlock asks

 "Uh, no. Thank you."

 John stands up, careful to keep an eye on the scissors as he opens the cupboard under the counter.

 He pulls out his nearly empty bottle of Scotch, and pours it out into a glass.

The kettle whistles and Sherlock raises an eyebrow before turning to pour the boiling water into his cup.

 John thinks he might say something, but before he can think about what it might be, his phone rings from inside his pocket.

 "Excuse me." he says. He swipes the scissors, and brings his glass into the sitting room.

The chair, an old flat back from his great grandmother's estate in Scotland, is a cold comfort when he pulls out his phone to find Mary's name on the screen.

 He hasn't been avoiding her, not really, but he hadn't called her or the children in over a week. He supposes that it was inevitable he get a lecture.

 "Hello?"

 "Hi daddy."

 John's heart beats faster, and his body warms from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his limbs at the sound of the tiny voice on the other side of the line.

 "Hi Gemma. It's late, what are you doing up?"

 "Mark and Gabe were watching a scary movie. I can't sleep."

 "I see, and Mommy said that you should call me?"

 Gemma doesn't answer, and John laughs to himself, remembering how, as a child, he did the same thing when he didn't want to lie to his mum, but didn't want to tell her the truth either.

 "You always make me feel better when I'm scared." she says. "You know how to make the bad people go away."

 John smiles weakly to himself, and thinks about the bad man standing in his kitchen. How he isn't behind bars like he's meant to be and how he never will be again.

 "Would you like me to read you a story?" he asks her.

 "Over the phone?"  She laughs.

 "You've never been read a story over the phone?"

 "No."

 "Well, let's give it a go, then."

 John tries to pull a story he could remember from the back of his mind, and makes sure Gemma is snug in her bed before he begins. She and her brother always had an overflowing shelf of books, but John clearly remembers a small stack of six or seven books that were the only ones that ever got read.

 He thinks he's found something he can get through at least most of.

  _Now, the Star-Bell Sneetches had bellies with stars._

_The Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars._

_Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small._

_You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all._

 From the corner of his eye, John catches Sherlock slinking into the sitting room. He can feel Sherlock watch him, and his cheeks get warm once again when that indecipherable smirk crosses over his lips.  

  _But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches_

_Would brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.”_

_With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort_

_“We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!”_

_And, whenever they met some, when they were out walking,_

_They’d hike right on past them without even talking._

 "Do you think you can fall asleep now?" he asks her after a few more lines.

 "I think so."

 "Alright. I love you Gem."

 "Love you too daddy."

 John hangs up his phone and sets it on the table next to him.

 "You recite a fine Dr. Seuss." Sherlock says.

 "Mmm, I should have majored in literature."

 The remark makes Sherlock chuckle around the rim of his cup, and that makes John smile in return.

 The room falls into an uncomfortable - yet somehow comfortable- domestic pattern of quiet breath,  slurped tea, and ice chipping against glass.

 "Well-" Sherlock says, standing up from the sofa, "I think I'll shower. Unless you were going to."

 "No. I'm trying to find the energy just to make it to bed."

 John does find what he needs to drag his tired body into the bedroom and slip underneath the covers. He's asleep before he can even fluff his pillows the way he likes them,  and he doesn't wake until his alarm reminds him of his meeting with Moriarty.

 John looks to the window, and sees that Sherlock isn't there. He listens for a clue as to where he might have gone, and hears it in the shower. John makes a strange decision then. He's filled with a tension that he needs to rid himself of. So, he reaches underneath the duvet, slips his hand between his pyjamas and his pants, and tries to keep track of the sound coming from down the hall.

 But John doesn't hear the light knock on the door or the whine of the floorboards. He's long since uncovered himself, and his feet flat on the mattress; knees up in the air.  He is oblivious to the eyes following the length of his body, studying the movement of his hand. He's sure that he has another ten minutes to finish what he rashly started when Sherlock woke to take his shower.

 He is so lost in himself that he has no idea there's someone else in the room, until he feels a hot breath wash over his testicles. He opens his eyes, panic thrumming through his body and making his heart stop nearly dead in his chest.

 He sees Sherlock, crouched down on his knees and elbows, between his open legs. He's barely dry from his shower. his hair is clinging over the angry red of his stitches, and there are beads of water glistening over his back, even in the darkness.

 The heat of Sherlock's rapid breath is still tumbling rapidly over his balls, and unexpectedly, John feels a slow, pointed lick from the tip of Sherlock's tongue.

He can't help but let out a moan, and when Sherlock does it again, John moans even louder. It's such a delicate touch, almost like it isn't even there, but John has his eyes fixed on Sherlock, and so he knows that it's real.

 John's body is so tense that he feels like he's going to snap and shatter into a million little pieces. There's a pause where Sherlock stops, and then the entire expanse of Sherlock's tongue is pressing from the underside of John's testicles to the edge of his hand at the tip of his cock.

 "Christ." John calls out.

 His hand falls away as both of them grip at the bed sheets. Sherlock has gotten up on his knees, and John hazards a look at him. He isn't able to deny that fully dressed, Sherlock is a beautiful man, and he isn't able to deny that fact now that he's nude either.

 John closes his eyes, because he can't bear to look at him anymore. He feels his thighs spread farther apart, and Sherlock's body lie across his. As Sherlock is grinding their erections together, he's panting wildly into John's ear. It's a fantastic sound that feeds more fire to John's groin, and John digs his fingers into the muscle of Sherlock's back.

John's toes are curling against the mattress, and it's almost all over. He bucks against Sherlock, his nails digging into his back so deep, he's sure he's drawn blood. He shakes as his orgasm pulses over his muscles and through his veins.

 John is in the midst of recovery when Sherlock lets out a long, shuddering breath, and bites down into John's neck.

 There's almost no time between Sherlock's orgasm and him rolling off John, and running out of the room. John takes a second to figure out what the hell just happened.He wipes away the cum drying on his abdomen with the shirt he took off before getting into bed, and pulls the covers up over his face. He doesn't think he can face Sherlock when he comes back.

 But he doesn't.

 John waits ten, fifteen minutes, and Sherlock never comes back to the bedroom. So, John cautiously gets out of bed, dresses, and pours himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen before he finds Sherlock on the sofa, waiting to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Obviously, I do not own the Sneetches - that fine bit of rhyming is credited to Dr, Seuss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at waiting to post updates! If something is done, I don't like it to just sit there - lol

The prison is cold. The walls are white washed, divided cement, and John can see the cracks through the fresh coat paint someone thought would hide their defects. The walk is long, but it feels longer as he paces down the hallway and into the visiting room.

John makes it to the end, and peers in through the one-sided window to see Moriarty already inside. He was sitting in hand and ankle shackles, looking as if he has all the time in the world to sit there and wait for John to make an appearance.

He takes a deep breath, and nods for the guard to open the thick, metal door for him.

"Agent Watson." Moriarty's voice is perky as it lifts over the sterile feeling of the room. "It's been a long time."

"Not nearly long enough."

John decides he isn't going to sit. He'd much rather tower over him a little,  remind Moriarty that he isn't the most powerful man in the room; not anymore.

"Oh, you can say you've missed me. I've got no one to tell."

"I just need to ask you a question."

"Good. I have one for you as well. But since you came all this way to see me, I'll let you go first."

Moriarty calmly sets his hands on the table, and folds his fingers down. He's sitting straight as a pin, his back not even touching the back of the chair.

"Why are you getting into the drug business? I mean, you got two of your past lovers clean, and you've never consulted a cartel or even a dealer, so why now? Because it's a quick way for a desperate man to make money or because Sebastian asked you to?"

"I'm not desperate."

"Then it's Moran. Did he make the first contact or was it you? Are you trying to help him or get him caught?"

"Neither." Moriarty answers.

"It bothers you, doesn't it, that you're here, and Sherlock's here, but Sebastian...he's still free."

"Sherlock isn't here though anymore, is he? No, Agent Watson, he's far from it. He's with you."

"Mr. Holmes is a tad bit smarter than you. He's found a way out." John says with a smirk, and a tap of his knuckles against the table.

"Mmm, yes, he has. Tell me, does it feel good knowing someone that strong, that intelligent; that beautiful, _wants_ you?"

John discreetly pulls at the collar of his shirt, knowing even that could give away what Moriarty already seems to know.

"You smell like him." Moriarty sucks a deep breath in through his nose, and lets it out slowly.

John ignores him and tries to stay on point with what he came there for. He isn't going to let Moriarty distract him. John is better than that.

"How are you communicating with Moran?"

Moriarty smiles. It's all teeth, and drawn up eyebrows. John doesn't like to admit it, but it sends a shiver down his spine.

"How are you enjoying fucking Holmes?"

"I'm not fucking Holmes."

"But you did. Or did he fuck you? Don’t let that cold exterior fool you; he’s quite the little slut.”

"I am not fucking Sherlock Holmes!"

"Oh! Hit a nerve, did I?"

John's fists are balled at his sides, and he so badly wants to reach out and connect one of them with the stupid smirk on Moriarty's face. He wants to see him fall backwards in his chair; see the look of surprise on his bloody face when John goes in for another punch.

"I can get any letters you've sent out." he tells him.

"That's a good idea. I'm sure it will make for great pillow talk.

John hits his hand against the door, "Coming out!" He waits for the guard on the other side to open it, and almost runs into the wall on the opposite end.  He's got his hands on his knees, and breathing heavy when Lestrade comes up to him.

"What the hell was that? He didn't tell you a God damn thing!"

"We'll get his letters."

"He doesn't write any!"

"Well, then someone does it for him! Interview all the people he associates with - everyone he doesn't."

"An entire prison?"

"Yes!"

"And what is he on about with you and Holmes?"

"He's a psychopath who used to shag the other one. He's just trying to rattle me."

"Well, he did a good job of it. You're damn near hyperventilating."

"I didn't sleep well. Just, check the mail, and send me anything you find. I have to go get Sherlock."

Sherlock asked again in the car to go with him, and John, again, told him no. He ended up bringing him to Mycroft's much to the grown man's childish protest. If John hadn't felt like he was going to snap at any moment, he might have laughed at the way Sherlock was pouting.

The door is answered by someone on Mycroft's staff, and the well dressed man takes him to a small study outside the formal sitting room.

There's a fire drawn inside, and it takes away the chill that's been seeping into John's bones. Mycroft is at a desk going over some papers, and Sherlock is sitting cross legged on the floor, with a newspaper spread out in front of him.

Mycroft stands when he sees John, but Sherlock pays him no attention.

"Thanks for watching him ." John says.

"Get what you needed?"

"No, he didn't." Sherlock says, his eyes still on the paper.

"Shut up."

"I told you, you wouldn't."

"Shut up!"

"Sherlock, could you give me and Agent Watson a moment alone?" Mycroft calmly asks.

Sherlock rather noisily closes up his paper and jumps to his feet. He marches past the two men, and slams the door shut behind him and leaves the study.

"My brother is a delicate, complex man."

"Wasn't that the defense your lawyers tried to use in court?"

"He's been with you two days. Has he tried to leave?"

"No."

John stands quiet for a second, waiting for Mycroft to say something else, but his lips are unusually tight.

"Is that all?" He asks when another few seconds go by.

Mycroft's tense posture diminishes just the slightest bit in acquiescence to John'. "Yes. You can take him."

John leaves the study to find Sherlock sitting like a punished child in a rigid backed chair outside the door. He motions for him to follow as he keeps walking down the hallway.

Passing by the intricate inlay of the wallpaper, the heavy bronze statues on the long, dark tables, John can't help but wonder why this home, and the man in it is what Greg has chosen. The home is suffocating; Mycroft is suffocating - it's all a cold strangulation wrapping around John's neck, and the drizzling rain hitting against his face once they reach the outside couldn't have come soon enough.

He takes in a deep breath, far down into his lungs as his shoes squish against each wet, cement step. He hears Sherlock's footsteps behind him, but even if he couldn't, he would still be able to feel his presence there, like a fire slowly burning through the layers of his clothing and stinging his skin underneath.

"I did tell you he wouldn't say anything." Sherlock says.

John doesn't say anything back. Instead he just shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to shake off, Sherlock’s remark. He's getting quite good at ignoring the world today.

"Oh, the silent treatment. Are you angry with me, John?'

John stops, his foot splashing into a puddle, and turns to Sherlock's smug face.

"I'm angry at this entire situation!"

"Moran is an idiot."

"But Moriarty isn't."

"He's letting his feelings get the better of him."

"For Moran?"

"For the work."

John stops once they've reached the car at the end of the long drive. He leans against the car, his hip cradling the mirror and his head resting at the top of the window. He's unraveling, and he knows it. The same way he did three years ago.

They get into the car, and John turns on the radio, so he doesn't have to suffer through another awkward silent car ride.

There's a pub that John passes a few block away from his flat. He's passed it before, but he's never stopped in. In truth, he hasn't been to a pub in quite some time, preferring only his own company, but he doesn't want to go home, doesn't want to be alone in that small space with Sherlock.

It isn't even noon, but once they're inside, John orders a pint and a shot of whiskey as he sits down at the bar. Sherlock sits next to him, and orders himself a lemonade, which makes John laugh.

"It's after noon." he says to Sherlock.

Sherlock looks to the clock on the wall beside them, "Two minutes past."

John laughs, and tips back his whisky as soon as it's set on the glass top in front of him,

"Still after noon." he says when he's finished.

"If you're avoiding an uncomfortable day with me in your flat, I'm sure there are other things we could do besides you getting pissed in a pub."

"Worried about my drinking?"

"No. I'm just afraid that at some point you're going to ask me to play darts, and I'll kick your arse."

John laughs again.

"Oh? Well, let's give it a go now. Before I'm properly pissed."

John spins on the stool, and brings his beer across the room to the dartboard. Sherlock is still sitting at the bar, still sipping at his lemonade. There aren't many people in there at this time of day, and so John doesn't mind shouting at him.

"Come on, Holmes - I thought you were going to kick my arse?"

"I said I didn't want to have to."

"Fine. Then, I'll kick yours."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. His long legs push him effortlessly off the stool, and he makes his way over to John. He's almost toe to toe with him. He reaches down and takes a drink from John's pint.

"I'd like to see you try."

"I put you in prison. I'd say I've already won."

"Mmm. Well, I'd like a rematch, then."

It's been quite some time since John has played darts. He and Mary used to go down to the pub near where she lived when they were young. Before John asked her to marry him, before they moved to the suburbs and had kids. But he doesn't think that Sherlock, raised in posh schools with manners and money, is going to be much of a challenge for him.

Until Sherlock closes his eyes, turns around, and throws the dart over his head.

"I have a great deal of downtime in prison."

"And they let you play with darts?"

"Made out of velcro."

This playful, human side of Sherlock that John is seeing as the day goes on, and they play and drink,  is making John's head spin. Every laugh, every smile, is unexpected, and John is finding that once it's faded away, he wants it to come back.

John finishes the last of his drink and decides that its best he leaves it at that, and best if they leave all together.

When they make it back to the flat, John opens the fridge, realizing all of a sudden that he's starving, and Sherlock must be too, only to find that there's nothing in there aside from half a jug of milk and some wilted celery.

"Is Chinese alright?" he calls to Sherlock from the kitchen, closing the doors on the depressing contents of his fridge.

Sherlock doesn't answer him, and so John walks into the sitting room to find Sherlock standing in front of the photos John keeps on his mantle; one with his sister from when he was a boy, and several of his children over the years.

"Is Chinese alright?" he asks again.

"Yes, that will be fine."

John nods, and heads back into the kitchen to find the menu. While on the phone to place the order, he opens a tall cupboard and sees a full bottle of scotch sitting on one of the shelves. Mary bought it for him as a wedding gift years earlier, and John was always saving it for some kind of special ocassion. He's starting to think that such an occasion is never going to come along, so he might as well drink it now.

He pours a glass for himself, and another for Sherlock, and brings them out to Sherlock who now has a photo album open in his lap on the sofa.

"Did you love her?" Sherlock asks just as John is setting the glass down on the table in front of him.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your wife - did you love her?"

"I'm not discussing my personal life with you."

"It's only life, John.

John takes a sip from his glass, and balances the rim in the grasp of his fingertips, dangling it over the arm of  the chair he's just sat in.

"Yes, I did." He answers.

"Do you still?"

"We were married for seven years, she's the mother of my children. I would love her regardless of whether I wanted to or not."

Sherlock laughs, "So, love for you is a burden; an obligation?"

"I didn't say that."

"You did. Love is an obligation for most people. You meet someone, you lust after them and delude yourselves it's something more than it is, and by the time you've come to your senses you'd feel bad for telling them the truth. So, you stay, and you tell them you love them, knowing full well, you don't."

"Did you love Moriarty?"

"Oh, now, you're too smart to be asking such a stupid question."

"You were with him a long time."

"It was a professional relationship."

"You slept with him."

"Sex has nothing to do with love."

"I suppose you're right."

Sherlock pushes himself up from the chair he's been sitting in, and starts to cross the room to bring his mug into the kitchen and go to bed. He stops just as he passes John, and places his hand over the fabric.

" love wasn't invented for men like me."

"Did you not love Moriarty because you truly never developed any feelings for him or because you were afraid to?"

 "I've never been afraid of anything, certainly not Jim."

"I didn't ask if you were afraid of _him_ , I asked if you were afraid to be in love?"

"And again, I answer that I've never been afraid of anything. I didn't love Jim, or anyone, because there was never any point in it. Love is real enough in that it's chemicals, and it's your body's reaction to another, but the lives that people build around the notion of it, is ridiculous. Sebastian loved Jim, and in return he was walked all over. Now, out of his pathetic feelings for the man, he's going to get caught when he was lucky enough to get away in the first place."

John brushes his little finger along his lips, and nods his head into it once its rested in the middle of his mouth.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock all but shouts. "We're meant to be finding Moran, and all you want to talk about is me, my life, my life with Jim. None of that is going to help you find him, and I do believe you've already questioned and arrested me quite some time ago."

"I'm curious, I suppose. You've been staying in my home, and I've seen parts of you I never knew could have existed."

"Because I'm a monster."

"I never said-"

"You don't need to. It's fact."

"But that's what I'm trying to say, Sherlock. I don't think it is fact.  I did, for a long time. I thought you no better than Moriarty. You made bad decisions, you did bad things, but _you_ , I don't believe, are bad."

Sherlock blinks a blank face at John, and John feels a rush of breath he didn't know he had lost filling back into his lungs.

"Well, as with most beliefs, you, Agent Watson, are wrong."

He lifts himself up from the sofa, and brushes past John in the chair. John stops him by the wrist, and gently releases him once Sherlock is standing still in front of him.

"I'm sorry about this morning." He says.

He should have said something earlier, but he thought that if he ignored it, then it could be like it never happened. But, in truth, every time he gave his mind a moment to rest, it crept back in, and replayed over and again until John could feel a sweat breaking out over his body.

"Nothing to be sorry about. You were lost in a moment and I- I suppose I let my body get the better of me.

"Right. Well, it can't happen again."

"Of course. It won't."

"Good. See you in the morning, then?"

"Yes. Goodnight."

John slides the palm of his hand over his face. He wishes that he could just take the morning back, or had his wank in the shower like he did every other morning. Why didn't he wait?

Because knowing that Sherlock was just next door, and that his shower could run short or John could run long, and be caught, such as he had been, was exhilarating.

John jumps from his chair, and starts pacing the room, picking up random things he's found lying around, just to have something in his hands, something to distract him from the thought of running to the bedroom.

He pours himself more Scotch, hoping to calm his nerves, but it only winds up the itch, making it that much harder to scratch. He grips his fingertips along the edge of the counter. This is madness - John is mad.

He has another drink, whether its again to try and calm himself or to find the courage to do what it is he wants, he can't say. But when the glass hits the table, and he turns to go back into the sitting room, maybe sleep on the sofa, he doesn't get any farther than the edge of the runner in the hallway.

He feels the threads underneath his toes, digs them in like he's gripping for a start, and then puts one foot in front of the other until he's in the doorway, afraid to take the last step into his own bedroom.

There's a  rhythmic pattern of the rain, and the steady sound of breath filling up the room.

There's tension hanging thick between them. It's been there all day, but John was able to ignore it. Now, he feels covered in it - not even the rain could wash it away.

Sherlock's voice rumbles across the room, and John sees him through a flash of lightning. He is on the mattress, duvet folded down to his waist, an open book spread across his chest; finger tapping against the cover. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling.

"Two minutes faster than I thought." Sherlock says.

"I - I just came for a blanket. Thought it best to sleep on the sofa."

Sherlock looks away from the ceiling and smirks at John. "Maybe so, but you're here now, past the bedroom door, and nowhere near any of your blankets.

John looks down at himself and realizes that he has moved past the door, and is standing with his toes up against the mattress on the floor.

Sherlock sits up, and slides his feet between the space in John's legs. He runs his hands over the smooth fabric of his trousers, his palms pressing hard over his shins, his knees and his thighs. His fingers crawl to the cold silver of John's belt buckle, and the sound of leather and metal coming undone floods John's ears.

He looks down from where he's had his eyes tightly closed toward the seam between the wall and the ceiling. Sherlock is looking back at him, fingers halted on the zip of John's fly.

He's asking for permission, John realizes. He wonders if it's a leftover vestige from his time as a subordinate to Moriarty or if he's just being nice. He didn't ask for permission that morning. If he had, John thinks he would have said no.

But now -Right now - he's going to say yes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! No more third person/present tense for me! I cannot write it well, and just yea! Lol. 
> 
> Don't get too upset with the end - there is a small epilogue on the way!
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy :)

The first time, only a few hours earlier in the gray light of the morning, they were both lost in the sensation, not in each other. There was no want or desire to please the other, just a deep need to rip pleasure from a body other than their own.

But now, John has a want to hear Sherlock coming apart on top of him again. He has a desire to see just how far he can push the other man, and how far he can be pushed back.

He nods to Sherlock's silent question, while at the same time threading his fingers through the dark curls waiting at his pelvis. Sherlock pulls down the zipper, and pushes at the fronts of his trousers.

John can feel sweat starting to line at the base of his neck.  He's down to his pants and Sherlock's standing now, hands up the soft fabric of John's shirt.

The pads of his fingers tickle as they slide up, and over John's nipples. John has always been sensitive there, and he drops his head against the back of his neck. He feels Sherlock's mouth against his throat, lips sucking at the thin, outstretched skin, coaxing out the moan that's trapped somewhere inside.

Sherlock's mouth hovers over John's chin, and continues to move up. His hand slips underneath the back of John's head and lifts him up until their eyes can meet. John thinks he's stopped breathing, and realizes that he's trembling. He feels the cotton of his shirt inching against his body, and over his head.

"Your scar." Sherlock says, grazing his fingers over the ugly puckered skin. "It's not old enough to be from your time in the Army."

"No. It's not." John replied.

"Missed major arteries by a centimeter, infected, so it's a bit mangled, but this came from a (something) sniper rifle... We did this to you."

John looks down to Sherlock. He's tracing his tongue along the path of his fingers against the scar tissue.

"It tastes beautiful." he says.

John is suddenly going mad with how slow everything’s moving. He pulls Sherlock away from him, and tugs at his shirt until it falls to the floor next to his own. He steps out of his trousers, and his pants, and hurriedly tries to take off Sherlock's as well.

Sherlock is laughing at John's impatience, and the low rumble of his voice breaks through some of the tension that's been growing inside John's belly.

John tugs at the waistband of Sherlock's pants and pulls him along to the bed where he lies on his back. Sherlock places one knee on either side of John, and rests his bottom against his thighs.

They each move to kiss, and then John's legs are being pushed up, nearly to his chest, and Sherlock's fingers are inside his own mouth; obscenely being covered in spit before he's pushing one - then two inside of John.

"You've been with a man before." Sherlock says.

John nods, "A long time ago."

Sherlock's fingers fall away, and he crunches John together impossibly tighter before entering with his cock.

John is immediately lost in the sensations - the flashes of lightning, the boom of the following thunder - Sherlock's grunts, and his own heavy breath.

Sherlock's hand is sliding against the sweat that's collected on the underside of John's knee, and he's losing his grip each time he presses deeper into John until he lets go completely and John's leg falls down onto his shoulder.

Sherlock pushes it off and wastes no time in pulling John up into his lap, hands wrapped tight around his waist, and their mouths crashing together in sloppy, desperate kisses. John's prick is trapped between their bodies, finding friction with every thrust and every roll of their hips.

John is close, and he thinks by Sherlock's broken, thready pants against his open mouth, that he is too.

Sherlock's fingers brush at John's cock, and that's all he needs to be pushed over the edge. John's nails grip into the flesh of Sherlock's back as he cries out, and tries to pull his lover closer. Sherlock gives John a moment to ride through his orgasm before he pushes him back against the bed; back arched while Sherlock loses control inside of him.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, his hair is matted to his forehead, and he looks…

John feels the weight of Sherlock fall against him, and the smell of sweat and cum tickling against his nostrils is the last thing John remembers before suddenly hearing a soft sound come from the sitting room.

He wasn’t sure where the last hour went, but it must have taken Sherlock with it, because John’s alone. He slips from the bed, and pads down the hallway where he finds Sherlock's shadow meeting with his own. He looks up from the form on the floor to see him by the large window. His naked hips are swaying with the noise he's pulling from the violin underneath his chin.

"What are you doing out here?" John asks. He wants to wrap his arms around the slender waist standing by the window, but he isn't sure if he's allowed.

"I couldn't sleep. Did I wake you?"

"I was never really asleep."

He dares, because his palms are starting to bleed from the force of his nails against them, to reach out and take hold of the space between Sherlock's torso and his hip. John can feel a shiver run through Sherlock, and for a moment he becomes tense from the touch, but he stays where he is, still gently sliding bow over string. The sound is so soft and so gentle, that if John weren't as close as he is, he wouldn't be able to hear it.

"You're very talented." John says.

"I know."

John laughs, "Not very modest."

"I've been told my whole life that I'm talented, at one thing or another - It was tiresome being modest after a while."

John dares again, because the touch he has just isn't enough, to rest another hand on Sherlock's other side. Sherlock sets his violin down on a table near the window, and places his own hands on top of John's. He slowly slides one up the length of his body; over his ribs, across his chest and his throat. He traces John's fingers over the bow of his lips, and gently uses his tongue to coax John's middle finger into his mouth.

John's eyes flutter shut, and he drops his head against Sherlock's shoulder blade. He knows that everything about this night has been unprofessional, wrong, maybe even...immoral, but Sherlock's body is a magnet that's been drawing John toward it.

"You aren't afraid anymore." Sherlock says as John's finger slips from his mouth.

It takes John a few seconds to realize Sherlock has said anything at all. Sherlock lowered John's hand, the one still at his waist, down to rest in the coarse hairs of his pubis.

"Of what?"

"Of wanting me the way that you do."

"Actually, I'm terrified."

"It doesn't make you a bad man."

"Doesn't it?"

Sherlock turns around, and John's arms slide around him; hands resting on his arse now. He's cast in a pale shadow from the streetlight. It makes him look almost holy, like an angel whose lost his wings.

"Only if you want it to." Sherlock answers, and captures John's mouth with a startling force.

John's hands have found their way to the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck. There's a soft, quiet intimacy about the fine hairs there that John likes.

"Come back to bed with me." John whispers against Sherlock's lips.

 

~*~  


Morning comes with more rain, but the storm seems to have passed. Sherlock is asleep on what for so long had been the empty side of John's bed. He smiles, and runs a finger along Sherlock's chin before climbing out of bed to make coffee and face the day.

He knows that he should feel wrong about what he let happen, but the only thing he's feeling is pleasantly sore.

The coffee is brewing, before he hears a knock at the door.

John wraps his dressing gown tightly around himself, and pulls open the door to find Lestrade on the other side.

"We need him to talk to Moriarty." Lestrade says, pushing himself inside.

"Good morning to you too." John says.

Lestrade runs his hand through his hair and gives an apologetic smile. He can smell the coffee from where he is standing, and though he looks like he's already had several cups, he makes his way into the kitchen to pour himself another.

John follows, glancing down the hall where his bedroom door is open, and Sherlock is still lying underneath the covers, eyes closed.

"I think if I have another go at him, I can get him to say something." John says to Lestrade.

"I'm sure you can, but will you understand it? He's done that before, hasn't he;  giving us muddled information?"

"Then Sherlock can observe, but I don't think it's a good idea to put the two of them together in the same room."

"I think we'll get better results if we just let him in there. He's always had a soft spot for him."

John sighs. "Fine. I think he's still sleeping. Give me a minute."

He leaves Lestrade in the kitchen, and goes to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He sits on the edge of the bed, and leans down to kiss Sherlock's cheek, which causes the other man to shift against the mattress, and blink open his sleepy eyes.

"Looks like you get to see Moriarty after all." John says.

 

~*~

John's hands are pushed deep in the pockets of his trousers as he watches Sherlock enter the heavy, metal door to the interview room. The intercom is turned on, and the volume up, but for the few long seconds, it's silent inside, apart from their breathing, and the clank of Moriarty's chains.

"Oh my, you're still beautiful as ever. Prison might not be so boring if you had been here with me." Moriarty finally says, breaking the quiet.

 Sherlock bends down to Moriarty’s level. His cuffed wrists reach up, and he brushes away the fringe at Sherlock's forehead with a gentle touch of his fingertips.

"Sentiment." Sherlock says, with just as much of it behind his voice.

John can see Sherlock's pupils constrict and contract with a kind of pained sadness. He turns off the intercom, and turns around, just for a second, because he can't bear to hear it; can't bear to see them.

It's seven minutes that pass, before John decides he should turn back around, turn the intercom on, and do his job. In that time, Sherlock's gone from standing before Moriarty like a long lost treasure, to sitting in the chair across from him, his hands clasped in his lap.

"Does he know, Sherlock, all the filthy things you've done? How I've watched you and Sebastian fall apart at my knees, drool spilling from your mouth, blood dripping down from your chest? Does he know how the last time we were together, you whispered that you love me?  Would Agent Watson still want you?" Moriarty’s asking.

"Tell me where Sebastian is."

"Answer something for me, first."

"What?"

"Do you love him too?"

Sherlock inches forward in his chair, and presses his face as close as he can toward Moriarty's, where he stares into his eyes several seconds before answering.

"No."

There's  a twitch in Moriarty's lips that hinted toward a smile as he stared at Sherlock from across the table. It felt like an eternity went by before Moriarty nodded, accepting Sherlock's answer.

"You won't find him here." he says.

Sherlock stares at Moriarty a few seconds more, and then knocks on the door to be let out.

"Well?" John asks "What did he mean, we won't find him here?"

"He isn't in England."

"Then where the hell is he?"

"Ireland, most likely. A small town about two hundred miles east of Dublin to be exact. It's where Jim was born."

"You've been there before?"

"Before Moran, when Jim wanted a break; a real break, we would go there for several weeks. It's really quite a charming place."

"Does he have property there?"

"His parents do."

"I'm sorry; his parents?"

"Even psychopaths had to be born, John."

"I know, but I guess I thought, maybe they had died, or abandoned him. It would explain why he is the way he is."

" _My_ parents are alive, happy; loving."

John reaches out, and pushes a piece of hair out of Sherlock's eye, much the same way Moriarty touched him only a moment ago. It's

"You aren't him." he says, quietly.  "And those things he said, about you, I don't care."

"I appreciate your insistence that there's a good man inside me, but really, there isn't."

"There isn't a bad man in there either."

"If I'm not good, and if I'm not bad; what am I?"

"Mine. For as long as you can be."

"And after that? When I've been exiled; free in the most limited sense of the term?"

John stands back and says nothing before shrugging his shoulders.

"It's a guard." Sherlock says

"I'm sorry?"

"It's a guard who communicates with Moran for James. The one who watches the door of the interview room specifically. Jim knows that I know where he is, and he no doubt told the guard to get word to Moran, but he won't be able to."

"How do you know that?"

"Mycroft has paid him a substantial amount of money not to."

"How did Mycroft-"

Sherlock reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out the same phone which was in John's pocket not a moment earlier.

"How did you get that?" John asks.

"Not a very good man." Sherlock says with a smile, waving the phone in front of him.

"Lestrade will be contacting you soon about going to the farm to get Moran. He'll want to leave early in the morning... I'm only yours for the next ten hours."

"We shouldn't waste any time, then."

"No. I suppose we shouldn't."

 

~*~

Sherlock's mouth his hot against John's skin. He's been lying underneath the other man for over an hour, letting him explore the ins and outs of his body. Sweat is lining every inch of his skin, his stomach twisted in a knot of anticipation. His breath is rapid, and shallow - in short, John feels as though he's dying, but his life is something he's willing to sacrifice if it means that this moment won't ever end.

John laughs when Sherlock's lips trace along the pads of his toes, and he looks down to see Sherlock laughing with him, just for a second, before he finds someplace else to kiss. John closes his eyes, and falls into the touch. He won't say that he loves Sherlock, won't say that he needs him, but he would admit to anyone, in that moment, that he wants him - every part of him. The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly.

He knows the kind of man Sherlock Holmes was, and he knows the kind of man he is.

And John wants both of those men to be his.

He sits up, and reaches down to put a hand firmly on either side of Sherlock's face, and crash their lips together into something that's slow and frantic all at the same time.

The night wears on until the sun starts to pry through the dark of the sky. They try to ignore it, to keep lying in one another's arms, wishing for a perpetual night, but John's phone keeps ringing, and if he doesn't answer soon, Lestrade is going to come by, and drag John out of bed himself.

He sends a text, and gets out of bed. Sherlock is still lying where he was left, watching John slide into his pants and trousers; pulling his arms through the sleeve of his shirt.

"Good luck, John." Sherlock says.

John smiles, and bends down to kiss Sherlock on the forehead.

He's only seven minutes late to the train station, but Lestrade looks as unhappy as he would had he been waiting over an hour. John mouths an apology, and joins his superior officer on the train. They silenty take their seats; Lestrade likely thinking about the impending take down ahead of them, and John thinking back to Sherlock's naked form in his bed.

"It isn't necessary to send Sherlock away, is it?" John asks, once the train has started to move, and trying to sound as personally uninterested as he possibly can.

Greg sets down the paper he's opened and started to read, and rolls his eyes. "Christ, it's true isn't it? You're shagging him?"

There's no point in lying now, is there? John thinks.

"I - it just happened."

"Jesus! Are you in love with him?"

"What? No, of course I'm not. This has nothing to do with me and him. I'm only thinking that he's smart; we could use him on other cases."

Greg straightens his paper out, and starts to read something again, "The terms of his deal are very clear. Find Moran and get out of here."

"I know that, but if Mycroft is anything, he's an excellent string puller. He got the deal in the first place. Maybe when he gets back -"

"It won't matter John. He's gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"I don't know. Mycroft wouldn't tell me. Whatever it was you and Sherlock had, it's over now."

"Madness." John says, quietly. "We had exquisite madness."

He leans his head back against the velvet seat, and closes his eyes into the sun streaming in through the window. He's thinking about the way the rising sun looked through the small crack in the parting curtains, and the way it traced over Sherlock's body, marking the minutes until John had to leave

He clings onto this pristine image, letting it wash over the trees, the hills, and the buildings that they pass until the train pulls into the station in Dublin. He shakes his mind clear so he can focus on his job.

They're met by two officers from the town, and take a quiet car ride the three hours it takes to get there. It really is charming; a bit of the countryside you see painted in quant works of art that are hung in the booths of a bank teller or turned into a puzzle meant to occupy a rainy afternoon.  

The farmhouse sits on several acres of land. It's old, but it's been restored to its previous glory it had seen more than a century ago. John and Lestrade are sitting outside in the driveway while the officers  approach the front door. Though, John has his gun tucked neatly away, he doesn't feel as though this is a moment he's going to need it.

The two men watch as the door opens, and an older man in overalls answers with a smile, and a handshake. The officers quickly explain what's happening, and the man's face turns into disappointment; in a way that says he's been through this before. As the father of James Moriarty, John realizes that he has been.

John and Lestrade are waved on, and they make their way up the driveway and into the home. There's a dining room off the foyer, and John can smell a meal that's just been set on the table for an early supper. In that room is a woman; young, long dark hair, and deep brown eyes.

"His sister." John mumbles to himself.

She's  beautiful, and has that same look on her face of disappointment.

Next to her is a man much the same age with bleached blonde hair and icy blue eyes.

This is Moran.

He stands from the table and goes, handcuffed, with John without a fight, without a question; without a word at all. John brings him to one of the squad car. He leaves him with an officer to go back into the house where Lestrade is questioning Mr. Moriarty and the young woman. They are, by all accounts, normal, sane and loving people. If John is to believe the evidence of the story of Moriarty's life laid before him in pictures on the wall, he too was a normal, sane and loving child.

John waits quietly and listens. They leave without charging the Moriarty's with anything. Because there had to have been a part of them that knew Jim's friend was as criminal as he was, there's no way to prove that they knew anything about the activity he's been involved in.

They leave with just Moran, but that's more than enough. He's silent through the car ride, and the train ride - only asking for a glass of water, and if he'll get to see Moriarty soon.  John leaves him with Lestrade to take to the MET, to book, and to put away where he belongs.

He just isn't in the mood to celebrate.

Instead, John takes a cab home.  He had just gotten used to living with the silence until Sherlock came and filled it up with his deductions and his violin, and his pleas of passion. Now all that's left of him is a stain left on yesterday's newspaper from the mug of tea Sherlock never finished.

John brings the mug into the kitchen and rinses it in the sink. He throws away the paper, and hauls the mattress back upstairs where he changes the sheets.

He's going to put his life back in order, and carry on, because there's nothing else he can do.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a short little epilogue.  
> Aside from the tense I chose to write in (I obviously need more practice on that one), I really enjoyed this! I hope you all did too!

_Epilogue_

 

It hasn't been easy to come to the reality that is my life after the temporary break I took from it with you. With Moran behind bars, his trial date set, I'm not sure what I'm meant to be doing anymore. Of course, there's always something braking the law to its most horrific extent. There will always be someone to replace the Moriarty's and the Moran's of the world- even someone to replace the terrible things you've done, but the good; the good things that you did to me - there won't anyone who can replace that.

I've been spending a lot of time with my children. It aches sometimes when I think about how much time I missed with them, how much I missed watching them grow. Gemma has this thing about strawberry jam - she wants it on everything; chicken, spaghetti. I even caught her dipping some crisps into the jar one day. And Gabe; he's a lot like me when I was his age -reserved, a little bit angry; protective of his mother, and suspicious of me. But, whereas I stopped loving my father, I know Gabe still loves me. I fell asleep on the sofa last night, watching some terrible move that came on the telly, and when he came down for a glass of water, he covered me with a blanket, and kissed the top of my head.

She's pregnant now; Mary -  midway through her sixth month. When it was us, we found out what we were having, but she and Mark want to be surprised. Whatever it is, as long as it looks like her, it will be beautiful.

I have the note that you sent me. I keep it in my pocket and sneak a read from it so often, that the edges are worn, and the ink is starting to crack.

_Dearest John,_

_I am not a good man, but I felt like one when I was with you - My sins were washed away and swallowed whole on the cusp of your cries in the dark._

_What you and I had, was madness, but then, what love isn't?_

_Where I've been, is filled with sunshine, but the heat never quite reaches my bones - It was so warm inside your bed, lying next to the place where you had just slept._

_I miss that place._

_-Sherlock_

There's another one, sitting on the table where I keep my mail. It fell through the slot, and had gotten lodged in a crack between the bottom stairs leading to the storage basement. I would have never seen it, if Mary hadn't needed to get some things downstairs she left behind. I haven't read it yet. Should I?

The envelope is lovely, just as the last one, and the stationary too. All I need is plain paper and a pencil, but I understand your appreciation for the finer things.

_John,_

_I could hear and smell the sea from my room. At night, it was the most pleasant accompaniment to my playing. There was a market in the street below every Saturday, and I ate fresh fruits and vegetables, and fish caught fresh just that morning._

_It really was all lovely, just as I'm sure your life has been lovely with your children and your work. But I've been bored John._

_I needed London and all the wonderfully beautiful and sentimental things she had to offer, so I've come back._

_It won't be long before they come looking for me, before I'm exiled again, or sent back into prison. So, come and find me John; before they do._

_I'll be waiting._

_Sherlock_

 


End file.
